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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25893427">Yer Name</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/neongull/pseuds/neongull'>neongull</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!, 君の名は。| Kimi no Na wa. | Your Name.</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Tragedy, Anxiety Disorder, Author Is Sleep Deprived, College Student Sakusa Kiyoomi, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Language, Inspired by Kimi no Na wa. | Your Name., Komori teases Sakusa in Every Moment of his Life, M/M, Mentions of Smut, Miya Atsumu is a Little Shit, Mutual Pining, Osamu can't help but Laugh, Pro Volleyball Player Miya Atsumu, Sakusa Has Crippling Anxiety, Slow Burn, Time Travel Fix-It, author keeps changing the tags and is very sorry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:22:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,341</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25893427</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/neongull/pseuds/neongull</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Kiyoomi is a struggling college student, Atsumu is a rising pro athlete. From there on, they're at constant odds.</p><p>So, what happens when they find out they've swapped bodies? Will they meet? And how do they deal with the push and pull of emotions that will inevitably come?</p><p>What they do know is that they are going to be absolute assholes to each other until someone gives up.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Minor or Background Relationship(s), Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Yer Name</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>September 20th, 8:15 am</p><p>Sakusa Kiyoomi startled awake to the fluttering sounds of a bird twittering. He wondered for a moment if it belonged to a nightingale and dismissed the assumption as quick as it had come— it was just an alarm. But that was just it. It wasn't <i>just</i> an alarm to Kiyoomi. In the prior few weeks, this alarm had been the bane of his existence.</p><p> </p><p>September 8th, 2:00 pm</p><p>"You <i>need</i> to change it," Motoya insisted.</p><p>Kiyoomi took mental note that this was the fifth day of his supposed intermission.</p><p>"<i>No.</i> I don't," Kiyoomi refuted, head tilting back to look up to the sky. Maybe some diety could spare him from Motoya's existence, just for a short while.</p><p>Unfortunately for Kiyoomi, there would be no divination today.</p><p>He continues, giving a whiny tilt to his voice that Kiyoomi hates, "It's <i>awful</i>, Kiyoomi! You'll have a heart attack one day <i>and</i>—!" He's now crossing his arms defiantly across his puffed chest and for added flair, he puckers his lower lip out. Kiyoomi wants to smack the shit out of him."—<i>who else</i> is going to remind me when to eat?!"</p><p>Kiyoomi really considers this and settles. <i>No one</i> would— because it is embarrassing for a man his age to need someone else to give him 3 timed texts throughout the day to make sure he eats properly. So, he angles his head towards Motoya and blinks.</p><p>Kiyoomi receives several—very heated—texts later in the day from Motoya for leaving him in the park.</p><p>The tangent had been over Kiyoomi's morning alarm. Motoya's initial argument was that he needed to change it to something more '<i>normal</i>’ and ‘<i>safe</i>’ after waking up in a cold sweat in Kiyoomi’s dorm room. The alarm had sent him into a deranged state of panic. He had flung every cushioned asset in his reach to the walls upon his awakening—Kiyoomi’s favorite maroon pillow had fell victim to this. Afterward, he threw his 5’11 self to the nearest window in search of where the sound was coming from—Kiyoomi’s carefully lined succulents at the base of the window had teetered dangerously close to the edge upon the Motoya impact. Kiyoomi remembers this in detail because he had been up before the alarm to witness the <i>horrifying</i> ransacking of his small 10x10 room.</p><p>In Motoya’s defense, his alarm had been the sirens of an ambulance and had been coming from the small yet very loud Alexa discreetly placed on top of Kiyoomi’s mahogany dresser.</p><p>After Motoya’s exasperated cry of, “Why, Kiyoomi, <i>why?!</i>” he spared that the sirens were the only sound that would undoubtedly wake him up and save him from going back to sleep. To this, Motoya grimaced and spent the next two weeks, 3 days, and 16 hours prattling on about him needing to change—what Kiyoomi still believes to be a <i>really meaningless</i>—alarm. On his last hour, Motoya pointedly stated that he would eventually be evicted from the dorms for disturbing his neighbors, and to that, Kiyoomi relented.</p><p>Now he wakes to birds, like a Disney princess.</p><p>He is thankful that he does not have a roommate to share this embarrassing reality of his.</p><p> </p><p>September 20th, 8:17 am</p><p>Shifting to his right, he huffed. Small, bitter needles purveyed throughout the right side of his body, so, Kiyoomi decided then that he would close his eyes a second longer and enjoy the soft cotton of his blankets. Heatedly, he thought back to his sirens, <i>they</i> wouldn’t have given him the pleasure of sleeping any moment longer, and then—in turn—he internally berated the melodic whistles of the innocent bird. And with a final, audible huff— Kiyoomi got up.</p><p>He stiffened. His body suddenly feeling very reminiscent of his awkward adolescence; vulnerable.</p><p>He felt too cold, too exposed. His body shivered— hungrily craving for the feathery brush of his cotton blanket in hopes that it would remedy what were hot, live sparks dancing across his skin. There was also the chilling draft from the barely open window to the right of his bed, it licked teasingly at his right side, which only left it all the more aggrieved as there was a numb aftertaste of pins and needles.</p><p>With severe hesitation, deeply afraid of this disruption to his routine, he peered down at himself, cocking his head to the left, eyebrows knitted. His breath hitches upon realization.</p><p>He’s naked.</p><p>Well, <i>almost</i>.</p><p>His current pieces of clothing consist of one ankle-length black sock, one white crew sock, and the pair of underwear he wore two days ago.</p><p>The glacial cold is soon forgotten because he begins to feel hot and sticky. He hates wearing socks to bed and absolutely despises anything dirty. Also, the lack of uniformity in this clothing choice is making him itchy in his forearms.</p><p>His head whips back up, eyes gaping, and a multitude of scenarios flood his consciousness on how this could have happened— all of them wildly inane. After all, he sticks to his preciously cultivated routine with religious ferocity. For example, Kiyoomi’s daily night clothes consist of a long-sleeved Henley shirt, an obnoxiously neon green chunky cardigan—gifted by Motoya—and long johns layered with a very threadbare pair of sweatpants. He makes it a point to wear this layout of clothing every night as all of the combined fabric rubs his skin in just the right way and leaves him invulnerable to the cold. Anything unprecedented that would disrupt this or any of his routines is accounted for in his journal. This same journal that he remembers to tuck neatly into the left, outermost pocket of his canvas bag every day before the start of the day. The journal was equivalent to a survival kit for him as he’s quick to lose coherent thought when presented with slight inconveniences.</p><p>So, none of this makes sense and the growing phantom feeling of it being humid in his room imbues a sense of claustrophobia into his staggering form. He also becomes uncomfortably aware of his heartbeat as it thrums woodenly against his ribcage; it <i>hurts</i>. He remembers he needs to breathe for it not to hurt—and does—although the imploding anxiety in the pit of his stomach could subside for a minute for him to properly collect his bearings.</p><p>It doesn’t.</p><p>He remembers the draft. His hands feel particularly stiff at his sides. The alarm is still going off. It’s no longer reminiscent of any Disney princess he can recall.</p><p><i>Everything</i> is inherently overwhelming him and it’s 8:35 am, meaning he can’t even go on his daily morning run.</p><p>He decides now that the birds will produce the same effect as the sirens because Kiyoomi is abruptly taking his first, heavy step towards his Alexa with the rest of the steps following more rushed and clumsier. With a shove of his trembling pointer finger onto the Do Not Disturb button and his other hand clinging to the edge of the dresser, the birds disperse.</p><p>Next problem.</p><p>The socks are slipping off—bunching at the tips of his toes. He desperately wants them off as his feet are beginning to feel heavier and hotter. Reaching down—<i>“Ough!”</i>—He forgot about the dresser; his head had been angled towards one of the knobs of the drawers. This leaves a pulsating throb at the right of his forehead that he <i>will</i> agonize over for the rest of the day.</p><p>He makes another untimely decision— sitting on the floor. </p><p>He hates the flooring—it’s carpet—and agonizingly dirty. And since Kiyoomi is still a college student, he can’t afford to dump—what looks like a small fortune to his bank account—on getting it cleaned. Also, Motoya plucked his wallet and phone away from him when he found Kiyoomi suggestively putting in the last digits of his card number into the site of the cleaning service. He didn’t get either possession back until he promised Motoya that <i>no</i>, he wouldn’t <i>starve himself</i> for a <i>month</i> so he can walk on clean carpet. But Kiyoomi is a stubborn mule and made several more attempts for his clean carpet that would be Motoya approved and—</p><p>—None of them worked. Two months was all it took to eventually cave to his unwavering financial tribulations. Instead, he compromised. With Motoya’s watchful gaze over his shoulder, he purchased himself a pair of pastel-yellow slippers. These slippers are held to the same esteem as his assortment of lemon-scented cleaning supplies. They are nowhere to be found.</p><p>Another problem has been created.</p><p>Glaring up at the dresser, he reaches up to pull the drawer with his socks and settles for at least getting a matching pair. He grieves momentarily— realizing he needs to go the extra mile and find a societally appropriate outfit too since it’s 8:41 am and only has 19 minutes to get to the lecture hall. It doesn’t help that the itchy material of the carpet against his lower half is really deteriorating his thought process. So, from yanking each sock from his feet to pulling clothes onto his body—he spends an extra minute to ensure that the fabric of the clothes roughly drag across his skin—he forgets altogether until the very last minute that his underwear is two days old and he really should have started a shower instead.</p><p>It’s 8:50 am and he only has 10 minutes now to get to lecture hall and not to mention, his pathway will be swarming with people he has no familiarity with, making the trek a long and brutal one. He still hasn’t forgotten about the mystery that caused this entire mess, since he feels the buzz of trepidation in every part of his body. For now, Kiyoomi settles on directing his, albeit confused, anger towards the birds.</p><p>The quickly slipping time he has left feels like hot sand on Kiyoomi's rattling mental state so—he squeezes his eyes as hard as he could to then open them with vigor—the practiced motion releasing the bitter tension in him. He can finally move on from the underwear dilemma and he does, as he's making his way to grab his belongings from the table just beside the door leading out of his dorm room. He slings the strap of his canvas bag over his shoulder, appreciating the rough material of the strap swiping briefly across his exposed neck. And he picks up the journal that was beside the bag to then slot it into the left outermost pocket of the canvas bag. He relishes in how the journal makes a soft ‘<i>thmp!</i>’ into the pocket—<i>this</i> is part of the routine that Kiyoomi holds so near and dear to his heart. But to his dismay, his being goes rigid again.</p><p>There’s a piece of paper that was just below the canvas bag on the table—and what he could only call chicken scrawl—was plastered across the paper, not at all aligned against the crisp blue lines.</p><p>Kiyoomi forcibly thought to himself, <i>‘It’s just a note left by Motoya, I’m sure.’</i> But, he’s also <i>sure</i> that piece of paper was taken from the pack of neatly lined papers in his three-holed binder. He only uses college-ruled paper, Motoya doesn’t. He remembers this because he had asked Motoya for an extra piece of paper—to then miss an entire lecture's worth of notes because, <i>no</i>, Kiyoomi needs to write on college-ruled paper—it's simply not the same experience if it isn't. However, he really didn’t want to add on to the pile of mess that was this morning. And the itch on his forearms is starting to feel like a mild sunburn. But he considers that it could provide context to missing an entire day of his life <i>or</i> it could just add more unwanted confusion. He shifts uncomfortably from left to right on his shoes for a moment—and reluctantly yields to the chaos as he careens cautiously towards the paper, unwilling to touch it. With a squint, he reads,</p><p> </p><p>‘Your life is really boring Omi. <i>Btw!</i> I used your slippers to throw at the guys downstairs. They were being scrubby.</p><p>You’re welcome,</p><p><i>Miya Atsumu</i>’.</p><p> </p><p>First and foremost, he chants an internal <i>'yes!'</i> —the problem regarding the disappearance of his slippers has been solved! If Kiyoomi's math grades are anything to go off by, he's sure that this means fewer problems to deal with but <i>no</i> he now has to deal with a <i>new</i>, and <i>large</i> set of <i>very</i> baffling problems. He's suddenly wishing that he could return to a minute ago and slap himself on the face.</p><p>He takes a long, languid gulp and peels his eyes ever-so-slowly from the paper.</p><p>
  <i>'I'm going to have to get those slippers back.'</i>
</p><p>
  <i>'I don't know who lives downstairs.'</i>
</p><p>
  <i>'Who is Miya Atsumu and who is he to call my life 'boring'?'</i>
</p><p>
  <i>'What does 'scrubby' even mean?'</i>
</p><p>And why should <i>he</i> be thanking <i>him</i> in the first place? <i>Miya Atsumu</i> is a complete <i>stranger</i> making Kiyoomi have a meltdown and it's only 8:56 am.</p><p><i>'It’s 8:56 am'</i>, he reiterates.</p><p>For his own sanity, he shoves himself out the door and decides to pretend that both the paper and this morning never existed.</p><p>And then he remembers—</p><p>
  <i>'Shit.'</i>
</p><p>He forgot to remind Motoya to eat his breakfast at 8:30 am.</p><p> </p><p>September 20th, 9:13 am</p><p>He accepts that he can’t pretend this morning never existed.</p><p>He had been on time—just barely—to his first class, but upon entering the hall, everyone in the nearest vicinity that caught their eyes onto his form, let their hooked gaze cling to him from that point on. Even the professor had a line on him.</p><p><i>Sure</i>, he may look a bit busted from his mass of hair resembling that of Tangela from Pokémon and his clothing choice could be better <i>but</i> all of that's <i>normal</i>. He's a college student and he'll be damned if he doesn't fit into the stereotype of being sleep-deprived and penniless.</p><p>But the nervosity of it all rakes cruelly through his body and makes his legs tremble. He pinches the side of his thigh in an attempt to rectify it. It continues to shake— he sighs at this.</p><p>“Why’s everyone looking at me?” He asks Motoya tiredly, with a glare to his face because Motoya is also looking at him without discretion.</p><p>“You were being <i>real</i> weird yesterday.”</p><p>“How?”</p><p>“Just <i>weird</i>,” Motoya provided unhelpfully, his hand making a spiraling motion.</p><p>He stifled a groan and directed his heated stare back to his notebook. At least Motoya had been fed and wasn't nagging on him for the missed text. When past the entrance of the hall, Kiyoomi spotted Motoya shoving the last few handfuls of Cheerios from a zip lock baggie into his mouth. He'll make sure to remind him to eat better tomorrow. <i>If</i> he could even remember tomorrow.</p><p>—</p><p>Only him, Motoya, and a raven-haired male reside in Kiyoomi’s reclusive corner of the classroom. He found great comfort in this seating arrangement he's created because despite needing his glasses to see anything going on in the front of the room, it harbored the immunity of sneaking glances and prodding whispers. Also, he was beginning to feel accustomed to the raven male because he never missed a beat when seating himself and—<i>the best part</i>—kept to himself. Now, everyone—including the raven—are looking at Kiyoomi like he’s about to morph at any moment.</p><p>And he's starting to believe in their stares because it feels like maggots are crawling tentatively across his skin. He's so sure of it that he ends up swiping a hand over the exposed skin of his other wrist and unsurprisingly—there's nothing.</p><p>“Well, okay, <i>so</i>—” Motoya bows his head, takes a shifty glance to his left and right peripheral and lowers to—what Kiyoomi could barely call—a whisper, “— Don’t you remember blowing up at Akaashi yesterday?”</p><p>Kiyoomi turns his head to stare at him blankly—racking through the files of his memory.</p><p>'<i>Oh, the guy's name is Akaashi</i>,' he remembers dumbly, taking a quick look back at the raven to the far right of Motoya—and an unwanted memory strikes him.</p><p>Just the other week, Kiyoomi had been walking to his dorm room and instead of continuing with his routine, he was interrupted by a curt exchange with Akaashi, however, his usual thin-framed glasses were nowhere to be found and his hair had been a mess of curls—sticky—and clinging to the curves of his warm red face. The rest of the unpleasant scenery consisted of Akaashi being pinned against a wall—a large tongue carnally traveling up his throat to his mouth, coaxing long lust-filled sighs from Akaashi. Said tongue belonged to a very graciously loud grey-white haired male. Kiyoomi pondered for a second who was really enjoying this more. <i>Anyways</i>, that same male was adamant about exchanging a word with Kiyoomi when spotting him slinking towards his own dorm room. It was as if he wasn't just about to <i>fuck</i> Akaashi right then and there—it was just a regular day, sun shining, and <i>'Oh! A new friend to be made!'</i></p><p>“Hey, hey!” had been the root cause of his nightmares for the next two days.</p><p>Kiyoomi did not want anything to do with that man, and just them and their existence in general. And apparently, Akaashi too shared the same sentiment as he ended the interaction before it could even happen by shoving both himself and the makeup-brush of a guy into his respected dorm room.</p><p>Other than <i>that</i>, he’s fond of how Akaashi keeps to his lonesome during lecture—so he really couldn’t find any reason to be verbally aggressive with him—or anyone for that matter. Kiyoomi considers his time to be precious and wouldn't expend it on anyone other than himself.</p><p>He shakes his head.</p><p>“<i>Well</i>—” Motoya continues hesitantly, “Everyone’s been on edge, I mean, you were <i>really weird</i>. I haven’t heard you talk as much as you did yesterday. You were <i>so loud!</i>”, He whisper shouts the last bit, Kiyoomi guesses it’s for emphasis, “And—</p><p> </p><p>—<i>you were talking in a funny accent</i>.”</p><p> </p><p>"An accent?" Kiyoomi doesn’t have an accent—or at least one that would be evident in the melting pot of New York City.</p><p>"Yeah, you called me a scrub," Motoya held true grief in his voice. But Kiyoomi wasn't about to apologize just yet because who else had used that word earlier? That's right.</p><p>
  '<i>Miya Atsumu.</i>'
</p><p>He's never met him, but he wants him out of his life that he isn't even in. His expression probably reflects the unabashed malice and bewilderment he was feeling because it pulls another question from Motoya, —</p><p>“—Do you <i>seriously</i> not remember?”</p><p>He <i>seriously</i> doesn’t remember and couldn’t possibly describe to the preppy brunette the events that entailed this morning and that he thinks a stranger who calls everyone 'scrubs' is the cause of them all.</p><p>Also, his legs won’t stop shaking.</p><p>He pinches them harder—he winces. It still does nothing.</p><p>“No, <i>I don’t</i>—,” He reaffirms, unsure if it’s for himself or for Motoya, “—but it doesn’t matter." It <i>so</i> does and it's driving Kiyoomi insane. "—It’s the next day now and I’d like for you to quit looking at me like <i>that</i>.”</p><p>Kiyoomi returns his gaze sharply back to his notebook, realizing he had been thumbing the top left corner of the paper. He'll have to re-write the slew of notes at a later time and pick up this discussion later too because, knowing Motoya, he won't let it end there. But for now Kiyoomi thanks a nameless god because Motoya obliges with a small, "Okay" and shifts his gaze towards the front of the room— his eyebrows worried and lips pursed in a tight, firm line. Kiyoomi feels a sense of guilt twist at his gut.</p><p>—</p><p>Kiyoomi also feels that Miya Atsumu will be extending his <i>plague</i> to the rest of his day.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>'Your Name' holds a really special place in my &lt;3 and i'm hoping i can reflect what i felt throughout the movie in this fic. also! this is my first time properly writing out a story and i'm <strike>Struggling</strike> Loving Every Minute. i love writing for kiyoomi! and atsumu!! this is all pure self-indulgence. so i hope you can indulge in this as well :') wodjaksj, please excuse any grammatical mistakes you may find because my only resources include: me and my word doc's very unhelpful grammar checks</p><p>as you may have already noticed, this will not be set in japan! i wouldn't be able to wholeheartedly depict what it's like to live in japan in an accurate and effective way in the story so—kiyoomi will be in new york city and atsumu will be, uh, somewhere in the u.s.! i'll leave that discovery for the next chapter :) </p><p>and again, i hope you'll enjoy this sakuatsu joyride!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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